Archpriest Alexander Shargunov: Response to yet another anti-church slander

Alexander Ivanovich Shargunov
(born 1940), archpriest, rector of the Moscow Church of St. Nicholas in Pyzhi. Born on December 31, 1940 in the Kirov region. Russian.

From 1961 to 1967 - student at the Moscow State Pedagogical Institute of Foreign Languages. Thorez. During his studies, in 1965, he received holy baptism with the name in honor of the Hieromartyr Alexander of Jerusalem [1].

In 1967-1968 he worked as a translator at the State Concert, where he translated and wrote poetry.

From 1971 to 1975 he worked at the Foreign Patent Office of the USSR Invention Committee.

At the same time, from 1974 to 1976 he served as an altar boy and reader in the Moscow Church of St. John the Baptist on Presnya.

In 1976, having passed the exams for the 1st and 2nd grades, he was admitted to the 3rd grade of the Moscow Theological Seminary. On March 27, 1977, he was ordained a deacon, and on May 21 of the same year, a priest. That same year, after graduating from the 3rd grade of the seminary, he passed the exams for the 4th grade and was accepted into the 1st year of the Moscow Theological Academy. In 1978 he switched to distance learning, and in 1982 he graduated from the academy with a candidate of theology degree, having defended his dissertation on the topic: “ Dogma in Christian life.”

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From 1977 to 1991 he served in the Church of the Icon of the Mother of God “Joy of All Who Sorrow” on Bolshaya Ordynka.

In 1986 he was elevated to the rank of archpriest.

From September 1, 1989 (except for the period from February 1 to August 31, 1992) - teacher at the Moscow Theological Academy and Seminary. Taught a course on the Holy Scriptures of the New Testament.

Since 1991 - rector of the Moscow Church of St. Nicholas in Pyzhi.

Since 1994, with the blessing of the Patriarch of Moscow and All Rus', Alexy II has headed the public committee “For the Moral Revival of the Fatherland,” organized by the patriotic public of Moscow.

At the end of 2013, he suffered a stroke and was in intensive care, but soon continued his ministry [2].

A prolific church writer and famous preacher, member of the Russian Writers' Union.

Father Alexander was baptized while still studying at the institute

December 31, 1940

birthday of Alexander Shargunov

The future archpriest Alexander Shargunov was born on December 31, 1940 in the Kirov region in the village of Trud No. 4, Nagorsky district. Father Ivan Shargunov died during the Great Patriotic War, mother Anna Rychkova, a peasant.

Little is reported in official sources about the priest’s childhood. It is known that in 1961-1967 he graduated from the Moscow State Pedagogical Institute of Foreign Languages ​​named after M. Thorez. Fluent in English and French.

Archpriest Alexander Shargunov. 2007 The archpriest was baptized in 1956 while studying at the institute

At the institute, Father Alexander met his future colleague and co-author Stanislav Krasovitsky. Now he is the priest of the ROCOR (V) Stefan Krasovitsky. During his studies and after graduation, Alexander Shargunov was engaged in poetic translations.

For example, the famous poem “The Poet” by the English romantic poet Keats. The author of his translation is Father Alexander.

The future archpriest Alexander Shargunov was baptized in 1956

While still a student, Alexander Ivanovich was baptized. This happened in 1965. The future archpriest was baptized in the Moscow Church of the Nativity of John the Baptist on Krasnaya Presnya. He was baptized under the name Alexander in honor of Saint Alexander of Jerusalem.

Priest of the Church of the Nativity of John the Baptist on Presnya, Moscow, Nikolai Sitnikov. 1997 Father Nikolai baptized Archpriest Alexander Shargunov and appointed him a sexton

It should be noted that his transition from literary creativity to the priesthood was long. From 1971 to 1975, Father Alexander worked at the Foreign Patent Office of the USSR Committee for Inventions. During these years, he was a member of the literary and philosophical circles of the Moscow intelligentsia.

Here they studied the Holy Scriptures. From 1974 to 1976, Alexander Shargunov served in the temple as a sexton. Its rector during this period was Archpriest Nikolai Sitnikov.

We need to be wary of flocking

— Since childhood, you had the opportunity to be acquainted with many famous and interesting people from your father’s parish, from the literary and journalistic environment. Who made the strongest impression on you?

— I knew Marina Tsvetaeva’s younger sister Anastasia Ivanovna Tsvetaeva, who was my dad’s spiritual daughter, the emigrant writer Vladimir Emelyanovich Maksimov, who was the editor-in-chief of the Parisian magazine “Continent,” and my own great-uncle, director Sergei Apollinarievich Gerasimov.

Once in London, my dad and I met with Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh . And although I, at the age of 13, was very interested in communicating with him, he told me, jokingly, that in childhood he also knew how to do this - sleep with his eyes open. I refer you to my essay “The Sunny Mezzanines of Metropolitan Anthony”, where I talk about this meeting in more detail. The feeling that remains from him is very important in a person, and Vladyka Anthony, I remember, was very kind to me. Such meetings are memorable, and, for sure, even in childhood they give you some weight, give you a feeling of some kind of holiday.

With son Vanya

— Nowadays, scientists are again exploring the relics of the royal family, since the question of their authenticity is still open. In “The Book Without Photographs” you wrote that some of the remains discovered during the years of “perestroika” in Ganina Yama were kept at your home for a long time. How did it happen?

“One day a researcher, a historian, came to us and through the archives managed to find out the place where the executed people were buried. He dug them up among the Ural swamps and asked dad to bury some of the remains - buttons, fabrics, brooches, skulls and bones - in our apartment. This is how they ended up with us when neither Moscow, nor the country, nor the whole world knew about it. But I already knew, and it was like a miracle for me. By the way, dad made great efforts to canonize Grand Duchess Elizabeth Feodorovna : I remember at the very dawn of perestroika he wrote a long article about her in Literaturnaya Gazeta.

—Which other of the new martyrs has special significance for you?

“Not all of the believers my family knew about have been canonized yet. There was, for example, the publicist Mikhail Osipovich Menshikov, who was shot in 1918 right in front of his wife and children. In my research about Valentin Kataev, I mention his second cousins. Archbishop Pachomius (Chernigov) and Archbishop Averky (Volyn) died 16 days apart in November 1937 - the first was given a lethal injection in the NKVD prison clinic in Kotelnich, the second was shot in Ufa.

St. Luke (Voino-Yasenetsky) remains a very significant figure for me . This is a man who went through the hardest path of imprisonment and suffering - and at the same time served God, the Fatherland, people with dignity and was even awarded the Stalin Prize.

— Is there a person in your life whom you could call your Teacher?

- A lot of them. These are both classic writers and contemporary writers who are artistically important to me. At the same time, it seems to me that a teacher does not have to be a high-brow academic, but we should also learn from our neighbors. For me, the teacher is my son. And even a simple grandmother on a bench can also be a teacher.

— Did it really happen that a simple grandmother helped you learn something?

“My important teacher was my own grandmother, the only one I found alive. Grandma had only two years of education, and yet she earnestly and passionately wrote letters to her acquaintances and friends, and knew a lot of amazing words, proverbs, and sayings. There was something not just Vyatka, but ancient Russian in her. I remember how, back in my first year of journalism, I read aloud about Kiy, Shchek, Khoriv and their sister Lybid - and suddenly I heard an echo and realized that she was echoing the ancient legend word for word. And I even wrote a story about her - “Grandma and the Faculty of Journalism.” She gave me a lot of things: she read all my first articles, gave me tips, advice, and told stories from her life. Once I showed her a book about the war - and she suddenly began scribbling an image of Hitler with her yellow nail with the words: “He killed my husband!”

In general, I loved my grandmother very much and consulted with her a lot, despite the fact that she was a simple village resident. Simplicity is not something to be swaggered about. It is not for nothing that Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy learned wisdom from the peasants and even imitated one of them - Epiphanius - not only in actions, but also in gestures and movements, and the peasant children in Tolstoy's school partly raised teachers. Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin communicated with peasants in the Holy Mountains, and, of course, there would be no Pushkin without Arina Rodionovna. At the same time, it is very important to develop independent thinking. The most dangerous and most common thing today is flocking, cliches, collective thinking on any topic, vulgar pretentiousness. This is what you need to be wary of.

While studying at the Theological Academy, Father Alexander announced the need to canonize the Royal Family

From 1971 to 1975, Alexander Shargunov worked at the Foreign Patent Office of the USSR Invention Committee. In 1976, he passed the exams immediately for the 1st and 2nd grades and immediately entered the 3rd grade of the Moscow Theological Academy.

Having studied in the 3rd grade of the seminary for only a year, and having passed exams for two classes at once, the future priest entered the first year of the academy in 1977.

Church of the Icon of the Mother of God “Joy of All Who Sorrow” (Transfiguration of the Savior) on Bolshaya Ordynka. Moscow. Here Archpriest Alexander Shargunov served as sexton and altar boy. Later he was ordained a priest here.

At the same time, he leads a spiritual life. From 1974 to 1976 he served as an altar boy and reader in the Church of St. John the Baptist in Moscow. Here he actively participates in the life of the parish and conducts theological conversations. At this time, his principled position on the issue of the martyrdom of the Royal Family and its canonization was manifested.

May 21, 1977

on this day Alexander Shargunov was ordained a priest

In 1977, on March 27, he was ordained deacon. That same year, on May 21, he became a priest. Due to difficult life circumstances, primarily pastoral ministry, Father Alexander transferred to distance learning.

From 1977 to 1991 he served in the Church of the Icon of the Mother of God “Joy of All Who Sorrow” on Bolshaya Ordynka (Yakimanka district). In 1982 he graduated from the Moscow Theological Academy, receiving a candidate of theology degree. The topic of the dissertation is “Dogma in Christian life.”

My father

They lived as a large family: Ivan Ivanovich, an officer, Anna Alekseevna, a peasant woman, her parents - Lukerya Feofilaktovna and Alexey Akimovich, children - Gena and Zina.
And our hero was named Vincent. In those days it was common practice to give unexpected names. But where does “Vincent” come from? He insisted on the name Ivan Ivanovich. He hardly knew about Van Gogh, but somewhere he came across this name and appreciated it. Perhaps he decided to give his son a bright, mysterious name, foreshadowing an interesting life.

Vincent was born at the end of December 1939 in a remote taiga village in Vyatka. Fragrant Parisian spring among the winter taiga... Vincent, Vincent - heavy ringing, crimson and gold. The wife obeyed the will of her husband, but immediately began calling her son Corolla. One day we moved to another village, in the same place, in the taiga. The child forever retained in his memory the horror of meeting Baba Yaga: during the move, he was left for an hour or two with an old taiga woman unknown to them in a hotly heated hut. There, something was boiling ominously in large cast iron pots. The old woman leaned over to the baby and promised in a squeaky voice: “I’ll eat you!” Devilish lights trembled in her eyes.

Soon the war began. Ivan Ivanovich was called to Leningrad. He ended up in a penal battalion (he poured more alcohol into the soldiers than was allowed). “My fate did not change for a long time,” he wrote home. The legless fellow soldier later said: in his heart, Ivan attached a photo of little Vincent to his tunic. The bullet pierced the photograph and the heart. At this time, the child was playing on the floor in the hut. Suddenly he began to cry and shouted: “They killed the folder! They killed the folder!” His mother beat him, he struggled and shouted: “But it’s not my fault that the folder was killed!”

The mother’s mother had all four brothers killed in the war, and the deceased father had all three.

The village had a large farm: a covered yard, a horse, a cow. Corolla wore bast shoes. Yes, I emphasize, I wore bast shoes! From the age of six he rode a horse and milked a cow. Mowed the grass. One summer, men who survived the war walked past a small mower (I remember this story, and then I included it in my prose) and said:

- What a fine fellow! Good worker!

One of them chimed in:

- We need to give him an egg...

The years were hungry, and the promised gift seemed something magical, as if it would not be a simple one, but a golden egg. The boy waited every day for a gift. “They haven’t forgotten,” he thought. “They will still make you happy.” But no one, of course, gave him any eggs.

I walked to school five kilometers away. Roundtrip. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a brother and sister. We had to go through a dense forest. Once there I met a bear. Another time - an escaped convict: a man in a padded jacket ran, looked around, fell into the grass (there were many camps around). Even then Vincent began to write:

“Not everyone can write poetry,” Gena once told me. But we are tormented by a poetic thirst. I write poetry - I am burning in fire.

Nobody knew where my father was buried: in a mass grave, that’s all. My grandfather, a fisherman and hunter who fought in the First World War, died. And Anna Alekseevna took her old mother and three children from the village to a new place - to the Ural village of Etkul to visit her relatives. There she got a job as a wardrobe maid at a hotel. And Vincent was sent to the Suvorov School in the city of Sverdlovsk.

All the teachers went through the war, were passionate, eccentric, most of the Suvorovites had fathers who died at the front. Marshal Zhukov, commander of the Ural District, came to the school. He walked along the floors, along the corridors, his stone face expressing will. In the morning, on the parade ground, the guys marched and sang: “Young Suvorovites, Stalin loves you, we will carry out, Suvorovites, the order of the Motherland!” Vincent began to publish in Sverdlovsk newspapers. His story “Sergei Frantsev” received an award from the newspaper “Red Warrior”, however, the editors renamed Frantsev to Bryantsev, but the author also called the newspaper in the ancient manner “Beautiful Warrior”.

It happened like this: one in the class, being on duty, took a portrait of Stalin from the wall, wiped it with a rag and unexpectedly exhaled: “May you die!” It turned out as if someone had said it for him, although he, like everyone else, believed in the leader. A week later, Stalin died. The teenager was shocked: he decided that Stalin died because of him.

Once they stood on the parade ground and played telegraph: in a row, in a low voice, they passed a swear word from one to another. On Vincent the connection has shorted out. He couldn’t, not that he didn’t want to, but couldn’t repeat it. After that, they began to tease him as a “saint,” and they drew a cross on his back with chalk. But Vincent was strong-muscled and an excellent student, so they quickly abandoned him.

In the Suvorov military camp near Sverdlovsk there was an alley of leaders. The golden sand of the path and on the sides are solemn, glassed-in portraits of the main persons of the party. There was something sacred about this place. And so it was announced that Beria was an enemy and a spy. And stones flew at his portrait. The glass rang. The young Suvorov veteran Vincent looked at all this in shock.

He did not want to become a military man, he had already realized his passion - to write words. The pride of the school, he announced six months before graduation that he was leaving. The boss, a general, called his mother. She arrived neither alive nor dead. She got upset and screamed. The son doesn't care. It all ended with leaving Suvorov, completing his studies at evening school and entering the Faculty of Journalism at Sverdlovsk University.

In 1959, Nixon arrived in the USSR. The American vice president was driving through the streets of Sverdlovsk and, leaning out of the car window, smiled widely and waved his arms. Journalists and accompanying persons flew in with Nixon. Vincent began to speak to them in English. He was interested in how Americans live, what they think about us. Near the hotel, the American readily communicated, also asking and pointing to his black friend: “You think blacks are exploited, but he is a capitalist. Owns a big company." After this conversation, two people came up on the street, showed me their KGB IDs and took me into the room. They threatened. “We’ll take you away now, and no one will ever find you.” Vincent answered them with a cheeky laugh. He was not afraid and did not understand the threat. He listened to rock and roll on reels, wore tight trousers, and smoked two packs a day.

A year later, a real scandal occurred at the university. They asked me to write a poem for a wall newspaper. I composed it quickly. For some anniversary of Lenin.

In his eyes I see the marching formation of so many Deaf years: And the cruel memorable thirty, And the vague fifty-sixth.

Thirty memorable - thirty-seventh, fifty-sixth - events in Hungary.

The scandal broke out loud and hysterical. General meeting of the course. Meeting of the entire faculty. “He was transferring some papers to America,” the dean said. Vincent blatantly left this meeting - “I’m late for a meeting with readers.” Meeting of the Sverdlovsk City Komsomol Committee. A meeting of the city Writers' Union, where before that they had doted on him and were going to receive him. The book of his poems, which was already ready, was scattered. Expelled from the Komsomol. Expelled from the faculty. In Komsomolskaya Pravda, a feuilleton about “politically immature youths” was published throughout the country, which told the story of “mannered and senseless, and in fact, anti-Soviet verses of student Shargunov.”

Vincent went to Yemanzhelinsk, a gloomy town in the Chelyabinsk region, whose name is reminiscent of imagism. There he got a job at a local newspaper. A year later I went to Moscow and entered the Literary Institute. Disgrace did not prevent admission; even the system of that time could not control everyone relentlessly. Kolya Rubtsov studied at the Literary Institute, with whom they drank, and once Rubtsov was scolded for a long time in the newspaper, where they took his poems together.

Vincent's poems became more and more mystical and mysterious. They were not accepted into Soviet publications.

Why do people in their homeland suffer from nostalgia, And the gesture in which the gesture of the branches is Stronger than other gestures?

And where the stars are, my shadow flies above me in confusion. And therefore liberation is a return home.

He left the Literary Institute because he got bored. He already knew everything that was taught. Having left the Literary Institute, he went to the city of Kachkanar and signed up for an all-Union construction job as a concrete worker.

He worked again in the Yemanzhelinsk newspaper. At night, in winter, I was driving from the village where I was going for a report, when the car stopped. And suddenly, among the snow and darkness, an inner voice said clearly and firmly: “We must go to Moscow. To Inyaz."

I flew to Moscow and easily entered Inyaz. Capable of languages ​​since childhood, he was fluent in English.

In his last year, he met Anya, the writer’s daughter from Lavrushinsky Lane, my mother. They were twenty-three. A beautiful couple: light, slender, dark-eyed and high-cheeked, tall, light-eyed. They perceived the world intuitively, but made passionate, categorical conclusions. He dedicated poems about love and death to her:

It's time for forgiveness and tenderness. And you, my beloved, in the morning you go out into the clearing by the lake. It’s cool from the blazing water, And the leaves in the clearing are like traces of All the little children who died early. And somewhere - as if she were nowhere to be found - a bird sings in the coastal bushes all day long. And the light flows through the slow water, into which your face looks...

They got married, believed in God and were baptized on the same day. At baptism, Vincent received the name Alexander. I won’t write in detail about how we came to believe. Everything happened through a mystical shock that changed them forever.

Almost everyone did not understand faith.

“Young man, I recognize your type,” said director Sergei Gerasimov, his wife’s uncle, benevolently. - This is the type of idealist!

- But at least the daisy is greater than all cinema...

“I agree,” Gerasimov answered and recited the Creed by heart.

Many acquaintances began to come to God. Journalist Misha Ardov, poet Stanislav Krasovitsky. The believing spouses met Anastasia Tsvetaeva, who strongly supported them. When our hero takes the rank and is called Father Alexander, she will become his spiritual daughter.

He graduated from Inyaz, and now he was about to travel to Algeria for several years as a translator. Shortly before departure, I was called to the KGB. “Why do you need this trip? Go to England, to France. On a creative business trip. Let's cooperate." Refused. They weren't even allowed into Algeria. “Do you understand that you will never be more than a school teacher?” - "It suits me".

And then he worked outside the staff at the Ministry of Culture. Together with foreign musicians and artists he traveled throughout the Union. "Oh, Vincent!" - the French perked up. He and singer Jacqueline Francois almost died in the Tashkent earthquake. The earth twisted and houses collapsed while the plane was in the air. I had to land in another city. Traveled with conductor Paul Paré. He was friends with Marc Chagall and came to visit the artist’s sister in Leningrad. Having escorted the conductor to the apartment, Vincent bowed and left, contrary to all instructions. So as not to disturb them and not look like a spy.

He was a translator at a dinner between Pare and Minister of Culture Furtseva.

— Why did they imprison Sinyavsky? - asked the conductor. Furtseva ate greedily and spoke through her food.

- Let him sit where he sits. And let Danilai... It’s good for them to sit!

At the same time, Vincent was a translator of poetry. For example, American poets. To this day, in Cummings’s books in Russian, some poems are translated by Shargunov.

All in green, my beloved went for a ride on a big golden horse into the silver dawn, four long dogs flew low and smiling, my heart fell dead in front.

Or:

Spring is perhaps like a hand in a window, carefully moving New and Old things back and forth, while people look carefully, moving perhaps a piece of a flower here, moving the air a little there, and not breaking anything.

The Ministry of Culture offered to join the party in order to join the staff - “or quit.” He did not agree and finally became an ordinary school teacher. He taught language and Western literature at a Moscow English special school. The whole year. I read the Bible in English to high school students, and they did not misunderstand, but loved the original teacher. And he never stopped translating books. And went to church. He was an altar server, a reader... And one day he applied to the seminary.

I went to Zagorsk, to the Lavra. On the train I realized that I had put on shoes of different colors, I was in such a hurry...

In 1978, he was ordained a priest, stopped writing and translating poetry, and devoted himself entirely to the church.

They immediately tried to take him to the department of external church relations: “We need good, good ones!” - said the barker. But he preferred to simply serve. He became one of the priests in the Church of All Who Sorrow, Joy of All Who Sorrow on Bolshaya Ordynka. One day a KGB officer came up and said: “We are only interested in foreigners. They come here. Could you keep us updated?" The priest retorted: “You don’t do anything without an order, right? Here, too, nothing happens without a blessing. I can't make a secret deal with you. First I must take a blessing from the ruling bishop.” The security officer retreated, confused.

In fact, at this time Father Alexander was already an underground worker. In the Ryazan region, a printing press was kept in a hut. There, several faithful children printed the lives of saints, including those killed by the Bolsheviks, based on samples sent from the Orthodox monastery in Jordanville, New York. Father Alexander distributed books among believers.

He revered and prayed to the royal family; a piece of the relics of Grand Duchess Elizabeth, transported from Jerusalem, was kept in the house. And then, miraculously, the remains of the royal family appeared in the house. They were dug up in the Ural swamps by a writer. No one in the world knew about the find yet, but bones, pieces of clothing, and buttons were already stored in the priest’s apartment on Frunzenskaya Embankment. Throughout his youth, Vincent wandered in Sverdlovsk past the Ipatiev House, and now... But more than that, the mother of his wife, the writer Valeria Gerasimova, lived in Yekaterinburg before the revolution and in the gymnasium sat at the same desk with the daughter of Yurovsky, who later shot the Tsar.

In 1980, Alexander’s father, forty years old, had a son, who was named Seryozha.

My first and main impression: I didn’t know my father’s name. “Bullshit,” his mother would sometimes tell him affectionately. "Vincent!" - she called out irritably. “Father!” - exclaimed the godmother. On the streets, when they asked me: “What’s your dad’s name?” - I was lost, and he, being nearby, introduced himself: “Alexander Ivanovich.” However, I usually hid who he worked for and got off with the word “translator,” which I didn’t really understand.

At first I treated my dad with anxiety.

Dad seemed to me either very strict or very kind. And indeed, these extremes were always combined in him, sometimes within a minute. He smiled with his whole face, with clear eyes, and you wanted to laugh and circle around him, but he, upset or hurt by some word, darkened, began to move his lips, and it became scary: the father was angry. He was very sensitive to words and was angry at any vulgarity. On those occasions when we found ourselves together in front of the TV, I always prayed that nothing would be shown that could outrage him. Then he would get wound up and begin to complain so much that I felt guilty about the TV box. All my life, the understanding of my father’s nature has not left me: he must be protected from any dust and dirt, he is too pure, naively, but also militantly pure. Even in his handwriting, round and small, like the pattern of a bird's feet in the snow, there is this purity.

When did we look at the box? A few times, with neighbors in Moscow or with friends in the summer... There was no TV at home. One day my dad started playing TV with me. I remember this day well. Mom was not at home. Dad put two chairs, sat on one, put out various toys in the square emptiness of the other - animals, dolls - and said menacingly: “Attention! Attention!". I laughed wildly and the next morning I ran to his room: let's continue playing. And he was terribly disappointed: my father refused to continue the game.

He drew subtly and interestingly, but seemed ashamed of it. Whenever I went to someone's birthday party, he would instantly write light and funny poems for me. His everyday speech consisted of consonances and puns, but he no longer really wrote poetry.

Still, since childhood, I felt in my dad some kind of cosmic, lonely passion that worried me. Some mysterious isolation.

We arrived in Crimea, I was five. In the evening, among the aromas, my father came out with me into the yard, from the yard onto the road. The stars were twinkling, the mountain to which the road rose was darkening close.

- Let's go to.

-Where, dad?

- Let's go to the mountains.

- There are jackals there.

- So what. Let's go...” He laughed dully. - Let's take a walk with the jackals. Let's go closer to the stars.

- And mom? She'll lose us!

- Don't be afraid.

He walked, and I, overcome by painful doubt, followed him, but more and more slowly. He walked along, humming thoughtfully. Fear struck me. My father creaked with pebbles, and so, touching my sandals on the pebbles to match this creaking, I rushed back, reached the gate in a few leaps, rushed into the garden, where bunches of grapes hung low in the dim heavenly light. He ran across the yard, tripped and fell into a ditch. Fell on his back. I lay there and saw the stars.

And the next day there was a sea. My father taught me to swim. He laughed and dragged me into the depths of the water, and then I figured out how to stop him. We should charge him with escape. Parents often talked among themselves about fugitives abroad, successful and unsuccessful.

- Dad! Where? - I screamed desperately through the spray. - That’s where the Turk coast is!

He wants to take me to Turkey, across the sea, into a forbidden foreign land - this was my cry addressed to the Soviet shore.

- There is the Tursky coast! Dad, let me go!

He muttered: “Well, he’s a Soviet patriot,” and returned with me back to the beach, where the vacationers, raising their heads, looked suspiciously.

Dad never hit me. Didn't spank. Although he often joked about this topic. Even when, when I was six years old, I left him in the woods just out of nowhere and wandered from morning to evening, when I was seven years old I caused a flood in the apartment (I opened the taps and played locksmith), and when I was eight years old I set it on fire. Only in the glare of the flame did the father swing, but did not hit.

My father admitted: as a child, he also left home, being offended by his mother for something. He walked about thirty kilometers before he was returned by truck. I didn’t go wandering out of resentment, but out of a passion for adventure. But the fire was started out of resentment. Then perestroika began, and dad published an article about Princess Elizabeth in Literaturnaya Gazeta.

- How?! Haven't you read your father's article yet? — his assistant, rosy-cheeked Aunt Olya, asked me.

- Do not read.

“It’s a shame,” she looked at me with a contemptuous look; Dad was silent, he, as always, did not pay attention to the conversations, immersed in his thoughts.

They went to the kitchen for dinner, where their mother was waiting for them, I entered the room. He stepped towards the window. On the windowsill were magazines (“Ogonyok”, “Motherland”, “Our Heritage”) and that issue of “Literature”, fluffy cotton wool, a box of matches. I thought that I was offended. Mechanically he fumbled for a match, pulled it out, and struck it. The cotton wool flared up instantly and festively. The papers caught fire, danced, and fell. The curtains burst into flames. The fire ran across the floor like a snake. I began throwing clothes from the closet onto this fast snake. Finally, I tore off my sweater and also threw it into the fire with a flourish. My dad found me rushing among the lights, half naked, attracted by the smell of burning. The adults quickly put out the fire.

The father was pale, looked intently, and lightly waved his hand. He swung, and that was it.

It is interesting that he did not have educational conversations with me - neither after leaving home, nor after the flood and fire. I said “I'm sorry” and that was enough.

From the age of six he taught me English. After breakfast we read English books, lying in the apple orchard at the dacha on an old dented cot. Dad said that this was our boat, and playfully wheezed: “Hold on, brother!”, They say, don’t fall into the green waves of grass. After lunch, we went to the forest, mom on her bike, me on dad’s bike, and English lessons continued there. An anti-alcohol campaign was announced in the country, and in a children's book friends named Nora and John appeared, and he came up with the slogan: Nora and John like odekolon!, which I repeated to his approving laughter. Sometimes my mother remembered my father’s poems. “Summer is too beautiful to last long!” - she sighed. He waved his hand lightly with a half-smile. He did not renounce the poems of the past. Unlike my godfather, the avant-garde poet Krasovitsky, who, having believed, burned all his poems to ashes.

Dad was stingy with praise, although over the summer I began to read and speak English. In general, dad never seriously interfered with me in my affairs (literary and, so to speak, social), but he certainly never welcomed them or helped me in them. But how he beamed like a child when I went to the temple! Already at four I crossed the threshold of the altar, at eight I became an altar server: I was dressed in a surplice, read prayers in front of the people, walked with a candle in front of the religious procession - for years. Until seventeen, before entering the journalism department of Moscow State University. At first I was carried away, but later I shirked and served out of love, so as not to upset my dad.

At school, at the insistence of my parents, I was the only one who did not join the Octobrists, and then the Pioneers. And soon, to the joy of the parents, the Soviet system collapsed. Dad was invited to teach at the theological academy and was made rector of the little white church of St. Nicholas on Bolshaya Ordynka Street.

Having welcomed the changes and victory over the communists, the parents soon became disillusioned with the new Russia. They were waiting for it to flourish. Homeless people, street children, refugees, and hungry old women poured into the temple asking for bread. One day, before my eyes, a man tore an icon from the wall and ran out of the church. I chased him, overtook him near the Martha Mary monastery, the thief rasped: “Good night, kids,” and ran on. My father could not stand “debauchery,” and now obscenity triumphed everywhere. Of course he was disappointed. And then the Moscow civil war happened.

I remember a heated argument in our living room. Writer Igor Vinogradov and Sergei Yursky, whom dad baptized. They argue about tanks, about shooting, about whether it was possible to dissolve parliament and break the law...

In those days in the autumn of 1993, there was a discord between my father and the liberal intelligentsia who loved him. I remember how before the New Year, a Parisian, writer Vladimir Maksimov, came to visit us, refused lunch and only tucked into strawberry ice cream, and he and my father sat for half a day and unanimously talked about the tragedy of that October.

“Why didn’t they go with all the liberals in the same direction?” - I think. They were probably closely connected with the life of the common people, they sympathized too much with the humiliated, insulted, and rejected. Their roots ran deep. Maksimov grew up in an orphanage, his father in the taiga.

My grandmother Anna Alekseevna was brought to us from Sverdlovsk shortly before her death.

— The whisk was obedient. Whatever I say, I did it right away, with joy. She sent the children to the field to collect hay. I'm coming. My corolla is the only one waving a rake. “Where are the others? Genka, Zinka...” He threw down the rake and cried: “They ran away, everyone ran away...” In Etkul she worked at a hotel. And one person forgot money in the room. So Venchik found this money, without a word to me - right after him. I found it at the station and returned everything. He slapped his pocket. That's right, the money is missing. How he hugged Corolla! He came back with him and said: “Here, mother, she raised a real person!”

My grandmother died at the age of ninety, and my father served a memorial service for her, and I, remembering my youth, dressed myself in a surplice and served, holding a large candle, and the melting wax burned my hands.

I repeat: my father didn’t interfere, but he certainly didn’t help either. I grew up, went to church less and less, wrote prose, fell in love, got a job on the radio, quarreled with people, drank, smoked. We didn't fight, but the older I got, the further we grew apart. Or maybe, on the contrary, in some ways I repeated his path.

We communicated less often, I often didn’t spend the night at home, dad became stern, but remained silent. I remember how, as a twenty-year-old, staying late in a drunken company, he arrived late. Mom was at the dacha. My father had to get up early for work; he slept in the back room and did not hear the doorbell. I didn’t have a cell phone yet. I jumped out into the black night, full of white blizzards, and ran to the telephone booth. With his finger frozen to the metal, he dialed his home number. “Hello,” said a dull voice. I hit the iron box with my frozen fist, and, lo and behold, my father heard. "Dad! Dad! - I shouted, and tears rang in my drunken voice. - Unlock it for me! At that moment I felt like a returning prodigal son...

Then I got married and lived separately. But my father and I continued to see each other - once a month. Now we see each other more often - once a week for sure.

We talk about art, about today's Russia, about my life, about my son. I ask my father about his childhood and youth. Of course, he tries to bring the conversation to Christ. It reminds you what church holiday is on the calendar today or is coming. Sometimes it seems to me that my father behaves more restrained and strictly than he could, he avoids unnecessary gestures and words, he wants to be remembered as a whole, to be an arrow that, without flinching, points in one direction - to Christ. He is happy when I come to church and when I bring his grandson to church. When talking about art, dad again and again talks about the “watercolor principle: a little bit” and, if I object, he answers me sharply. His eyes flash with blue fire, and he looks fiercely younger. There is a dangerous impulse to attack in him, the “thunderstorm gene” lives in him. And the more doubts he has, the tougher and harsher he can be. But the brighter the outburst of anger, the more dismissive he is - suddenly the storm is replaced by a scattered blissful light, awkwardly and confusedly the father asks to “sorry for being rude,” and you feel like a loser and completely guilty.

I’m thirty, and my dad is seventy, and my son Ivan is four. We are walking in the country, forty kilometers from Moscow. Forests are burning. But it’s not as stuffy here as in Moscow. Haze obscures the spaces, as if a memory of death, a symbol of the frailty, the illusory nature of our days. In this dark endless haze is the bitterness of passing time.

We walk through the forest, which is not yet on fire, but is especially gloomy. Dad hums something: either a psalm, or a Suvorov soldier’s song, or Cummings’ poems. Vanya holds a puppy on a leash. The hunting dog Jules, like Vanya, is cheerful and zealous.

“The egg is not simple, but golden,” Vanya mutters to us a fairy tale. - Zhulya ran, bit her with her teeth and broke a testicle. What, grandfather?

“Julia is faithful,” the grandfather tells him louder. - Jules Verne…

The dog tugs on the leash, and Vanya takes off with it behind the trees and the smoky veil.

My father and I follow, cheerfully, quickening our steps. He hums something again. What? Mystery. For some, he is a frightening image - the Russian Savonarola. For some, the image is reassuring—a pillar of Orthodoxy. For some, a dangerous fanatic. For some, a fiery preacher.

For thirty years I still haven’t understood my father, I haven’t been able to reveal him. I re-read and remember his strange poems:

No one will hide that he exists, no one will hide that he is not there. And in this honor the child cries.

No, I can see something. That something is purity. Natural, natural stubborn purity. Purity in gait, handwriting, laughter.

On the Suvorov parade ground, at bohemian feasts, among rough construction sites, in the pulpit, he was always clean.

Always, since childhood, when I went out for a walk with him and looked at him, something vague, ready to be formulated, asked to come to mind. "Behold the man." At the same time, open simplicity and some kind of internal tension, as if readiness to be shot. Stately, clear-eyed, with a small beard, he came out into the air, and every time a man stood in front of me. Reference person. Here's a man. I do not know how to explain it. A person who can be silent is even more charming. What if he silently prays all the time and prayer fills him with significance? Or is it that he is not a human, but an alien?

The light-eyed alien who gave birth to me. A?

In his youth, he himself suspected that he had been brought into the taiga from another planet. No wonder it’s an exotic name.

Magazine "Snob", December 2010-January 2011 (Nos. 27-28), p. 279-286.

Alexander Shargunov became the rector of the temple as a result of the conflict between the Russian Orthodox Church and the Russian Orthodox Church Abroad

Father Alexander Shargunov began to serve in the famous church in the name of the icon of the Mother of God “Joy of All Who Sorrow” (in common parlance - “Sorrowful”) on Bolshaya Ordynka. The rector at that time was Cyprian (Zernov), who previously headed the administration of the affairs of the Moscow Patriarchate, but fell into disgrace.

In 1986, Shargunov was elevated to the rank of archpriest.

Church of St. Nicholas in Pyzhi (1657-1672), Moscow. In 1991, Archpriest Alexander Shargunov became its rector and remains in this position to the present day.

September 1, 1989

Alexander Shargunov became a teacher at the Moscow Theological Academy and Seminary

At the same time, the priest is actively involved in social activities. At that time, the USSR still existed and, naturally, Shargunov’s criticism of “Sergianism”, Soviet power, as well as the call for canonization of the family of Emperor Nicholas II and his family could not attract the approval of the authorities.

Only in 1991 was his appointment to the position of rector of the ancient church in the name of St. Nicholas the Wonderworker in Pyzhi followed.

This appointment occurred as a result of the conflict. The fact is that the ROCOR community, headed by Hieromonk Tikhon (Kozushin), was registered at the church address. The community violated the law during registration and took possession of the temple. Father Alexander expelled her from the temple.

Bishop Filaret (Karagodin). In 1992 he was appointed to the position of rector of the Moscow Theological Academy. Under him, Archpriest Alexander Shargunov returned to teaching the Holy Scriptures

In 1992, Alexander Shargunov was fired from the Moscow Theological Academy. In the same year, after the rector of the academy, Bishop Filaret (Karagodin), was relieved of his post, Father Alexander continued teaching. He teaches the Holy Scriptures of the New Testament.

In October 1993, Archpriest Alexander Shargunov sharply criticized the shooting of parliament

Father Alexander Shargunov, from the moment he became rector of the Church of St. Nicholas the Wonderworker in Pyzhi, actually became the leader of the circle. It was composed of Moscow Orthodox fundamentalists and monarchists.

1993

in October of this year, Father Alexander Shargunov called on his flock to vote for Gennady Zyuganov

However, in 1993, he entered into an alliance with the Communist Party of the Russian Federation, because he realized that only communists could save Russia from moral decline. During the presidential elections in Russia, from the pulpit of the church he called on the flock to vote for Gennady Zyuganov, and not for Boris Yeltsin. In addition, he sharply criticized Yeltsin’s shooting of parliament.

Zyuganov Gennady Andreevich, leader of the Communist Party of the Russian Federation. In 1993, the archpriest called on his parish to vote not for Yeltsin, but for Zyuganov

In 1994, the Public Committee “For the Moral Revival of the Fatherland” was created. Sharkunov received the post of chairman in it. The committee included well-known public figures of national-patriotic orientation. The organization initially criticized the policies of Boris Yeltsin.

At the same time, the committee began to interpret “moral revival” as in the context of a national-patriotic ideology with a leftist bias. The committee's close contacts with the Communist Party of the Russian Federation date back to this time.

Stefan Krasovitsky, Anatoly Zyakin, Mikhail Kuznetsov, Irina Medvedeva, Alexander Shargunov, Vladimir Pereslegin, Anatoly Koryagin, Olga Lochagina. Participants in the press conference “Persecution of Orthodox citizens for their beliefs” (in connection with the trial of the pogromists of the exhibition “Beware of Religion!”), July 17, 2003

Since February of this year, the activities of Father Alexander Shargunov have been reduced to preaching “moral revival.” This was expressed in the tearing down of advertisements from pillars and the destruction of contemporary art exhibitions.

In addition, among the scandalous speeches of the archpriest one can name the secret veneration of the icon of Tsar Nicholas II in his parishes. The priest also actively opposed the canonization of Ivan the Terrible and Rasputin.

In recent years, the archpriest has been seriously ill

The priest actively speaks in public. He visits the media, preaches on Radio Radonezh and in the magazine Russian House. Alexander Shargunov is the author of numerous books. Among them are:

Buy books by Father Alexander in the Sretenie online store

• Christmas post;
• Great Lent;
• Sunday sermons;
• Twelfth holidays;
• Before the Cross and the Gospel;
• Cross and Resurrection;
• Orthodox monarchy and the new world order;
• Devotees of the Marfo-Mariinsky Monastery;
• Miracles of the Holy Royal Martyrs;
• The Last Weapon;
• Mirages of love;
• Gospel of the day (commentaries on the Gospel readings for the whole year).

Church of St. Nicholas in Pyzhi.
Matins of Holy Saturday, 2014. In 2013, Archpriest Alexander Shargunov suffered a stroke, but later continued his ministry on April 7, 2012

on this day Patriarch Kirill awarded the archpriest the right to wear a miter

Active social and political life has led to the fact that Father Alexander has recently been seriously ill. In 2013, he suffered a stroke and was in intensive care for a long time. Later, he continued his ministry.

Father Alexander Shargunov preached the ideas of Orthodox conservatism

The sermons of Alexander Shargunov are very popular in the Orthodox world. The fact is that they are distinguished by a deep study of theological issues. In addition, Father Alexander pronounces them with deep conviction that he is right.

Video: Sermon by Fr. Alexandra (Shargunova). December 19, 2012.

The main ideas that he preached can be called in one term “Orthodox conservatism.” It includes upholding Orthodox values ​​unchanged, reverence for royal power, and a strict attitude towards morality. At the same time, for the archpriest everything is built around God.

Archpriest Alexander Shargunov preaches the ideas of Orthodox conservatism.

He criticizes various philosophical schools in his speeches. For example, about Nietzsche in his sermons, the archpriest says:

Alexander Shargunov

Archpriest

“Nietzsche is an apologist for the destruction of what he calls intrusive morality—moral teachings in which he sees “shadows of God,” idols as useless as concepts of value, truth, or progress.”

In many sermons, the theologian exposes the heresy of chiliasm, that is, the idea of ​​​​creating a thousand-year kingdom on earth. Father Alexander says:

“... The fundamental dogma of the Christian revelation - original sin - is not social injustice, the main evil for chiliastic Marxism.” In addition, one can also find in them the idea of ​​a “tsar-redeemer,” which refers to Emperor Nicholas II. In the Russian Orthodox Church, not everyone shares this idea, pointing out that even God’s anointed cannot be considered either a Savior or a Redeemer, since only Christ can be one.

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What literature is silent about

— Does great literature exist today, in your opinion?

- Of course it exists. There are interesting and great writers - Evgeny Vodolazkin , and Alexey Ivanov , and Alexander Terekhov, and Zakhar Prilepin. I believe that everything continues. It seems to me that colors have returned to literature; it has now become very diverse and complex. If the literature of the conventional postmodern era is still a literature of some kind of mockery and deconstruction, then today I see a return of attention to the person, to real life, to authenticity.

— What questions, in your opinion, still remain unanswered? What do great writers avoid?

- Combining literature with social ills. Ivan Bunin, Leonid Andreev, Maxim Gorky rhymed the plots of private human life with the plots of our time, but today there is practically no such thing in literature. There is a lack of understanding of historical events. For example, we have almost no new prose related to the war in Ukraine or the drama of Donbass. I’m not even talking about understanding these events, not about conclusions, not about answers - I am a categorical opponent of turning literature into leaflets. But if stories about people inside events, the air of time, appeared in books, it would be important for me...

— You often travel to villages, towns, and cities of Russia, and for different purposes - to teach in schools, and speak in libraries, and simply observe people’s lives and learn their stories. What trips do you especially remember?

— Some time ago I visited distant villages of the Kirov region, the homeland of my grandparents, talked with local residents, and even found my relative there. I saw the log house where my father spent his childhood. In this hut he played war and at the moment when his father was killed at the front, he shouted: “They killed the folder!” He had such an insight.

And now I’m going to go to the Tula region, to the monastery where a hundred-year-old monk lives, one of Valentin Kataev’s relatives. He has a lot of memories associated with the war and emigration. He left Russia for Australia, but in the 90s he decided to return and settled in the Tula region. Very cheerful, he even uses a mobile phone. I hope we get to see him. I try to keep up with something besides literature - to help people as much as I can, to respond to what worries me. For me, personal communication is a great treasure. It never feels like it's a waste of time. You can, of course, contact me on Skype, offer to watch me on TV or read texts - but then you come to the unheated room of a rural library, a number of people are sitting there, both adults and young people - and this face-to-face communication gives - that's an impulse. Or teaching at school. You come to the 31st Chelyabinsk Lyceum, teach literature lessons there and understand that everything will have the right consequences. And indeed, years later these students write letters, search and find themselves in literature and journalism. Many people, as you know, consider themselves geniuses and are confident that they will be published immediately, although this, of course, is not the case. I receive hundreds of letters in my mail every day: it is not always possible to read and be a reviewer of all the works, but nevertheless I try to help whoever I can and respond to every letter. Especially if they write about some kind of trouble.

— Were there any situations when you felt that you really helped a person?

“It often happens that I just call out, and people help. This happens almost every week. For example, recently a large family was left without a roof over their head: the woman had an accident, was temporarily disabled and could not pay for a rented apartment. I wrote an article, it was published on several resources, and within a week we raised money for a house in Pushkino. We managed to raise funds for more than one operation and much more. But I personally try not to report on these occasions...

It’s great that such support mechanisms work and that we have mutual assistance and mutual assistance. I just published a text on the Free Press website about collecting humanitarian aid for Gorlovka, where there are a lot of dead, wounded, destroyed hospitals, schools, and so on - and the response came immediately. In general, when I have to answer something to someone about the Church, I always point out that the most important institution of social protection today is the Russian Orthodox Church. Every day they send me a huge number of reports by email (I specifically asked for this) about helping the sick, mothers, the homeless, street children, drug addicts, and people in camps. This is a huge, well-organized work that all parishes are involved in. But this is rarely mentioned in the media...